Beginnings, Middles, and Endings
by Smellabelle
Summary: A glimpse into a few missing moments I was inspired to fashion between two of my favorite television characters.
1. Part I: If At First You Don't Suceed

A few minutes, then five more and meet her at her car. _Okay..._

_Wow… that just happened._

He had to clamp down on the urge to yell and pump his fist in the air like his team just won the big game. Definitely not appropriate work behavior—at least not in response to this occasion. The occasion being a clandestine make out session between coworkers in an empty interview room. Also not work appropriate… _Wow_. Belatedly, he reminded himself to take a moment to try and clear his mind before following her out of the kitchen and more importantly, to make sure his face was blank. Jane would be able to read him regardless. But if he wasn't careful, he might continue staring into space with a goofy grin on his face and then everyone would know something was up.

Unfortunately, the few minutes she's promised turned into five and five became ten, each like its own small eternity. Due to the flow of conversation, it would have been conspicuous for her to jump up and leave. _Easy, stay cool_, he ordered himself. _You've waited this long, a few more minutes won't kill you… probably. Keep it together, man._ He moved as though in a dream world, a crystalline hallucination. Time moved too slowly. A surreal feeling came over him, like maybe the whole thing had happened in his imagination. After all, he'd fantasized scenarios alarmingly similar time and time again.

Even as he worked to keep his mind clear so no one, especially Jane, would sense anything amiss, he was reliving the gentle touch of her fingers trailing down his arm, taking his hand, then sliding around his neck and tangling in his hair. He could still taste a hint of her lip gloss. It had been real and he would believe it until the ends of the earth if it meant kissing her again. He just had to make it until five minutes after she left. Until then, he had to find a way to act normally while his body vibrated with tension and nerves.

At some point during this internal struggle, he realized he was staring at the three slices of 'case closed' pizza he'd put on his plate (all sausage, just to irk Cho), having not taken a single bite. Unfortunately, Lisbon noticed at exactly the same moment.

"Rigsby, are you feeling okay? I've never seen food last this long with you in the room," she teased, looking at him quizzically. He shook himself slightly, noticing he'd already drained the plastic cup of wine Jane had poured for him. Even that small amount put a slight buzz in his head.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said after a moment. "Just thinking I might've been able to pay off my car with that wine." Lisbon chuckled as he made a wry face and picked up a piece of pizza he was sure he wouldn't really taste. _Whew, close one_. Jane had revealed moments ago that the Beckworth treasure was very real but not in the form of money or jewels. The 'treasure' was actually a collection of rare wine vintages that had a potential worth of millions of dollars. Of course, he conveniently told them this after pouring them all a glass and waiting until after they toasted to closing the case.

"I don't get it. Wine," Cho said in his usual flat tone. "It's tasty, but how can it be worth that much? And why would anyone pay that kind of money for it? Makes no sense." Rigsby shrugged in an effort to continue engaging in the conversation. A quick glace told him Grace seemed to have relaxed marginally now that he'd snapped out of his obvious stupor. Of course, it was hard to tell; she was surprisingly cool considering what had just transpired between them. There was no outward sign that she was feeling much at all. Only someone who'd spent time studying her as he had would be able to see the nuance in her demeanor. Considering she told him earlier that day it wasn't the right time, he worried she'd be feeling more conflicted, upset, anything… maybe even aroused. _I mean__ … it was really, really hot_, he admitted, with deference to his libido. _Soft, warm lips and she tasted like… Seriously, stop._

Then he noticed she too had downed the wine rather quickly and he suppressed a smile. She sat picking the cheese off her second slice pizza without really eating it. Her upper lip worried the lower one gently, something he noticed she did unconsciously when feeling stressed. Chuckling to himself, he tore his eyes away from her mouth before he gave more away.

No doubt Jane's spidey sense was already going crazy. Rigsby refused to discount the possibility that the man was actually psychic no matter what he said. Cho probably also noticed but was the least likely to draw attention to the matter. Rigsby wondered if he should tell Cho about what happened since the other agent had always been very encouraging. He was thankful to have a friend in Cho because no one wanted an ex-gang member turned detective as an enemy.

_Wait. What exactly _is_ going on?_ He realized he should probably figure it out before he decided to tell anyone anything. He really had no idea what to expect when he walked out the door in a few minutes. Suddenly, the pizza wasn't sitting very well in his stomach.

It wasn't as if Grace had returned his declaration of love. More like she'd… what? Stopped pretending she wasn't attracted to him by kissing him senseless? Even though his stomach knotted anxiously, he took his third slice, attempting to keep the concern out of his face. Why did women have to be so damn complicated? He couldn't assume she wanted to…well, that she wanted him. He cared too much to push her or try to take something she wasn't ready to offer no matter how much his hormones begged him to take action. He refused to be that kind of man.

Maybe she just wanted to– _gulp _–talk?

Some part of his brain registered the conversation continuing with Grace wondering aloud if Mrs. Foster knew about the wine collection and its worth. Another part of him thrilled pleasantly, as it always did, at the sound of her throaty voice. He wanted to watch her mouth work as she spoke. _Okay, definitely avoid looking at her until we're alone again. Alone…_

Jane was watching him. Rigsby felt his eyes doing their slow assessment of his body language, breathing, eye moment, whatever mumbo jumbo he used to do his magic. _Might as well be a mind reader._ Rigsby purposefully leaned back in his chair, linking his fingers behind his head, trying for nonchalance. He heard Jane chuckle to himself and Rigsby feigned confusion, indicating he had no idea why Jane was laughing. Jane merely mocked his attempt at innocence with a mysterious look. Luckily Jane was standing out of Lisbon's line of vision, preventing her from witnessing the odd exchange of silent communication. Rigsby rolled his eyes and went back to his pizza, hoping it would start tasting less like cardboard.

He'd stop at three slices tonight even though he was famous for his ability to pack away a large pie all by himself. He wasn't sure he could handle any more. _Okay, maybe a fourth piece_, he reasoned now that his stomach felt a little steadier. Reaching for the box, his attention strayed across the table to the suddenly empty chair at the far end. He froze. She left? _She left_. How had he missed it? It couldn't have been more than a minute… but time was doing that weird relativity thing. How long had it really been? For the split second he sat with his hand stretched toward the pizza box, he pictured Grace standing impatiently at her car waiting for him only to end up changing her mind and leaving before he could explain. Explain what? _That I missed my chance with her because of pizza_?

He gathered himself to jump up from the chair, mind racing for an excuse that would make a speedy departure possible. Then Grace walked in from the kitchen area and started gathering her things. "Well, I'm beat, guys. I think I'll head out. Have a good weekend, everyone. And thanks for the wine, Jane," she said sardonically. "G'night." _Oh thank god_, he breathed inwardly, immediately feeling sweat break out on his palms and butterflies in his stomach all over again. _This is it_. She started down the hall amid a chorus of goodbyes, tossing a quick but significant look over her shoulder in his direction. His heartbeat kicked up a notch.

The next five minutes might just be pure torture.


	2. Part I: Try, Try Again

What was it about him? After more than a year working alongside him, she still didn't know. Certainly he had somehow managed to knock down and undermine some of her most carefully constructed internal barriers. And today he had all but demolished them.

He was like water, with the power to soothe and potential to destroy her—if she were to allow either to happen, of course.

On some level, she had known he was simply biding his time, waiting for the right moment. She'd felt it building between them for months now. Each time they were alone, each time they spoke, however casually, there would come a moment when she felt that edge of sexual tension. He was endearingly hesitant, almost shy with her. She couldn't help but notice how attractive he was even if she chose not to respond. At first, she'd felt an overwhelming sense of relief whenever the tension was broken before something happened that couldn't be undone. Being close to that edge was intense. It left her feeling edgy and more vulnerable than she liked.

Once, he'd asked about her plans for the evening in an obvious opener. She'd been sure he was about to ask her out when rather than taking the opportunity, he simply told her to have fun. Later, when she was at home executing said evening plans, she realized something. She didn't just feel relief anymore; there was disappointment, too. She'd even given him the perfect break. After all, she could have said, "Oh, I have a pedicure, yoga class and then I absolutely have to wash my hair," or anything to discourage further questions. Instead, she'd done nothing but make it clear that she had no specific plans at all. She was free as a bird.

Crap. That certainly hadn't been her intention. What did it mean? And what on earth had happened to all her defenses? Where were all of those red flags she'd come to rely on? Now she felt a secret thrill whenever they were alone together. Her breath wanted to hitch when he looked directly into her eyes. The fact that he filled out his suits very nicely came to her attention on a more regular basis.

Still she resisted. It was against the rules and for that reason the relief would always be there. The longer she could avoid it, the better. She was a getting really good at compartmentalizing exactly this sort of emotion and she could batten down the hatches with the best of them. Even if it meant not exploring the warmth she felt when they accidentally touched.

She hadn't really even planned on kissing him today. After their undeniably awkward conversation during the stakeout, she'd felt satisfied that her position was clear. It _wasn't_ the right time. At least, that's what she wanted to believe. Never mind that it was probably _never_ going to be the right time. Never mind the closed up look on his face that made her feel like a bitch. Grace the Professional gave herself a pat on the back for a job well done.

When the case was over and she wound up in the kitchen alone with him, Grace the Woman wasn't sure she believed her own reasoning. He was keeping his distance, pretending valiantly that nothing had happened. For both their sakes, she also pretended though she could tell how miserable and hurt he was. After all, he'd taken a huge risk only to be slapped down. She was caught up in her thoughts when Jane came into the kitchen, distracting her just enough to forget about keeping her guard up. Before she could regroup, Rigsby was behind her, reaching into the cabinet. For a moment, she was deliciously aware of his body, so close she caught a faint trace of his scent reaching out to her like a dying wish. When he stepped away, the abruptness of his absence left her feeling hollow and cold.

What came over her then, she couldn't exactly explain but she remembered thinking, o_h, screw it._ She wanted to see what it felt like to be close to him again. For once, she allowed her mind to shut off and surrendered to the intoxicating vulnerability. And with that surrender came something she'd never cared to experience before – the pure frenzy of following one's impulse. She acted without thinking for once and it left her feeling wickedly exhilarated and very exposed.

It also left her with no idea what was going to happen next.

Ignoring a slight brush of panic, she slid into the driver's seat, taking a moment to lock herself in. It was late but it was Friday and the team had no pressing cases. That meant no work until Monday and a real weekend. She didn't mind waiting for him longer than their agreed five minutes. After all, it was her fault things got pushed back to begin with. She'd have to remember to make it up to him.

Her stomach fluttered a little as the exterior door opened. S_ecurity guard_. _God, do I feel like a teenager again_, she noted with some surprise. Somehow, Rigsby had the unique ability to make her feel this way. In fact, she remembered feeling almost exactly this way the first time they met.

Her first day at the CBI, she'd walked into the bull pen to find a formidable man leaning over the conference table as he sorted papers into files. Though she was determined to make nothing but a professional impression, two X chromosomes begged that she take a moment. Even the lines of his back shouted masculinity. Broad shoulders that narrowed into a trim waist, cute butt, long, lean legs. And not to mention tall! Grace had known plenty of men taller than her but very few who made her feel short. Most cleared her height of 5'8" by only a handful of inches and the difference wasn't all that noticeable. But the man before her made her feel small, delicate, oddly young… and very feminine. _Hopefully he's ugly_, she thought, wondering what unit he in. With a deep breath, she cleared her throat and stepped toward him.

"Be with you in a second," he mumbled automatically. He turned away from the conference table to a desk on his left, a neat stack of files in hand. As he turned she shifted her weight slightly, drawing his full attention. She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing as he then executed a comical double-take in her direction that nearly sent the file folders flying. They stared at each other for a moment. _Definitely not ugly…_ Finally, he managed to get the files safely to the desk and edged forward awkwardly.

"Uh, sorry… I'm, uh… I'm Agent Rigsby," he muttered, as though repeatedly losing his train of thought. "Wayne, actually… Wayne Rigsby." In the seconds before his recovery, he seemed to have experienced several different emotions, each one playing across his face. The most dominant was surprise but underneath, a glimpse of some stronger emotion. Whatever it was caused her heart to trip and her face to warm.

As an attractive woman in a male dominant field, she was used to being ogled to a certain extent when not being treated to sickening attempts at seduction by over confident buffoons. At work, she chose to ignore it because doing otherwise simply wasn't an option. In life, she chose to ignore it because she believed most men couldn't help themselves.

Needless to say, she hadn't blushed like that in years. The truly uncalculated nature of his reaction threw her off. She warmed to him a little more when he had the decency to look sheepish after his rather blatant display. "You must be Grace Van Pelt," he said, holding out his hand. His voice was pleasantly gruff.

"Yes, that's right." _How does he know my name already?_ She gave his hand a brief but firm shake, trying not to think about the warmth of his hand or the dizzying effect of his smile. The contact seemed to cause him to lose track again. Finally, Agent Rigsby schooled his features and cleared his throat.

"Right… It's, ah, nice to finally meet you. I'll get Agent Lisbon and we'll get started," he said, taking long strides toward the back office. It took a moment to dawn on her. He'd said _we_, and she knew Agent Lisbon was the name of her new boss. The unit he was a part and the one she was joining were one and the same. He knew her name because he was one of her new teammates. She'd see him every day. The nerves she was already struggling to control fired up in full force. In that moment, she realized she had to make a choice and make it fast before things got carried away. Either she could work with this man as a professional and learn to deal with the occasional surge of random hormones or she could let all her hard work unravel before her eyes. She had no doubt which she would choose.

By the time Again Lisbon emerged from her office, Grace had clamped down on her initial reaction to Rigsby and locked it safely away. Or so she'd hoped.

Their mutual attraction resurfaced accidentally during a case involving hypnosis. While she strongly suspected he had developed feelings for her, what with the drug influenced declaration he'd made, everyone in the office knew differently. They didn't have to suspect anything, much to her surprise. It was common knowledge that Rigsby was in love with her. Not just a crush or infatuation. Love. It was unfair, really. Shed contributed nothing to the rumors.

She remembered standing with the team, watching Jane attempt to prove that Rigsby was indeed hypnotized. Jane asked him to think about what he most wanted to be doing at that moment and then told him to go do it. She vividly remembered thinking, _this is ridiculous. What a waste of time. _Frustrated yet again with Jane's constant games, she started back towards her desk.

Suddenly Rigsby was coming after her looking very determined. Without reservation, he pulled her into a mind erasing kiss. She lifted her hands to push him away only to find herself returning the kiss, marveling at the sensation of his lips on hers, his hand in her hair, the sensuous slide of tongues. Pure reaction took over and swept her along for the ride. Once coherent thought returned, she became painfully aware that she'd just shared an intimate kiss with a coworker in front of the entire office. A kiss he conveniently couldn't remember later!

Later she would wonder in how many other moments he most wanted to be kissing her. Considering how often he stared at her, she suspected the answer would make her head spin. It also occurred to her that Jane knew all along what Rigsby would do. Otherwise, it wouldn't have worked. Patrick Jane was just far too clever sometimes.

She might not have returned his kiss at all were it not for the fact that she'd acknowledged her own feelings for him a few months prior. Another case, this one involving someone who also thought Patrick Jane was far too clever. That someone decided to do horrible things in order to teach Jane a lesson.

The case coincided with her decision to start dating again. She felt settled into her life in Sacramento and was confident enough in her work to allow for what could be considered a distraction. And one morning, she met a man at the street side coffee cart. He was cute, funny, romantic, and suitably ambitious as one of the youngest assistant district attorneys in the city. He was many of the things she wanted in a man, incidentally sharing many qualities with Rigsby. How very little did she know.

As it turned out, this man was nothing like Wayne Rigsby. Turned out, he was the one who wanted to get to Patrick Jane. And he had used Grace as a means to an end.

Her first dating attempt in Sacramento had quite literally been a disaster involving car bombs and shootouts. Though she refused to even think the name of the man who had abused her trust, the events of that day would never leave her. Jane and Rigsby were nearly killed that day because she had been a fool. She was indirectly responsible for putting them in such danger. Never again would she be so careless with her associations.

When Lisbon told her Rigsby had been found in the men's room, her mind jumped ahead. The pure panic she'd felt at the idea that he was hurt or dead probably exceeded the appropriate level of concern for a colleague. Upon seeing him alive, whole and conscious, her relief fueled euphoria was definitely more than she ought to feel. And for long afterwards, she told herself it was that adrenaline that made her throw her arms around him, hold him, and nearly kiss him before the janitor interrupted.

After that night, she simply couldn't keep avoiding what was in front of her. The working relationship she'd built with Rigsby had become a genuine friendship and something more. She trusted and respected him. They worked well together and with the team. During the sometimes very long hours, she found in him an easy companion. He made her laugh and brought out her own rusty humor. He actually listened when she had something to say and didn't treat her like a silly female or an incompetent junior agent, though he did have a disconcerting habit of being overprotective toward her.

Regardless, she could still choose to refrain from being the one to initiate any breach of conduct and so she had. She'd gone on with her life knowing she felt something more than friendship for Wayne Rigsby and since she couldn't fully explore it without risking her career, she put it out of her mind.

Unbeknownst to her, Rigsby had been taking the time to gather his courage, finally making a move while they investigated the secret passageway under Beckworth Manor, of all places. She smiled, musing over his adorably fumbling first attempt, the warmth of his big body in the cool passageway. Relief and disappointment again when he stopped himself. How on earth did he expect her to respond? And just when she thought the moment had passed, he surprised her again, looking directly into her eyes, revealing that he not only loved her, he _needed_ her. He would risk his career for her.

And then—oh, and then. "Unless you stop me, I'm going to kiss you now." He leaned forward, her mind went blank, her skin flushed with anticipation. They were alone and he smelled like heaven in the darkness, his hands gentle on her arms. She felt her eyes close, her face tilt up. His lips only a breath away and she knew she would kiss him back this time.

And then. Oh, and then… Patrick Jane happened. End of romantic interlude. The man probably knew exactly what he'd interrupted.

Afterward, she'd procrastinated, buying time as any sensible girl would do. Somehow, her best intentions got turned around when it came to Rigsby.

Speaking of, what on earth was taking him so long? It seemed ages since she'd said goodnight to everyone. She got out of the car quietly, searching for a plausible excuse to go back into the building as though she'd forgotten something. No, she couldn't do anything to raise further suspicion. Rigsby had already been acting weird around the team earlier. She made a face, and leaned against her car feeling a slight chill despite the mild night. Any longer and she would have to move her car or be forced to fabricate an explanation should Cho, Lisbon or, heaven forbid, Jane exit the building before Rigsby.

The team was familiar with her vehicle, especially after its involvement in the Da—uh, He-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless incident. She'd driven a loner car for nearly a month while her Jeep first visited the forensics lab and then a body shop for extensive repairs. Everyone encouraged her to get a newer, more economical car but she loved her Jeep dearly and planned to drive it until it fell apart. It would raise concern if her car was still in the lot when everyone else left. With a gusty sigh, she turned to get back in.

Then she heard the quiet _whoosh_ of the pneumatic door. She froze, keys dangling in hand. Panic and excitement coursed through her system. Moving only her eyes, she checked behind her using the reflection in the side mirror. What she saw set her heart racing wildly.

Rigsby strolled calmly towards her, eating up the distance between them with long legs. He held her gaze in the mirror with hot eyes. He stopped about a foot away from her, just close enough to be in her personal space without actually touching her. "Van Pelt, what are you still doing here?" he teased in a low voice. "It's late. Didn't you have a hot date to get to?"

She saw the opening he was giving her. The ball was still decidedly in her court. Without saying so, it was understood that if she asked him to forget the whole thing he would walk away. It left her feeling both thrilled and terrified.


	3. Part I: Good Things Come

He wanted to touch her but knew they were still not completely alone. Somehow, the five minutes without her in the room had managed to drag more horribly than the first fifteen. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching out.

The parking lot was deserted but for the security cameras. All state buildings were required to have around the clock video surveillance that was both monitored and recorded. There were only two or three security guards on duty at night but there was always a chance one of them was watching. He wasn't sure what the coverage was like but was unwilling to risk it, even when she was looking at him from under dark lashes with her eyes full of sin and uncertainty. It might be worth losing his job just to kiss the pretty scowl off her face but he was determined to restrain himself.

With a mischievous roll of her eyes, Grace turned, crossing her arms over her chest. "Very funny," she murmured. "Actually, I did have a date, but I had to cancel what with the late night and all. So, I guess I'd better go on home now. Alone." She spared him a glance before lowering her voice. "You'll have to follow me. My place can be tricky to find." Before she stepped back, she tilted her chin up until he would have been able to lean forward only slightly to touch her lips with his.

Rigsby inhaled sharply. He could feel his mouth hanging open and didn't care. He'd never seen the flirtatious side of Grace before and the effect was deadly. She raised her eyebrows at his stunned expression and pulled the car door open. "Goodnight, Rigsby," she said louder, continuing the charade. Smiling, she angled into the Jeep and started the engine. She had shifted into reverse before he came back to himself enough to move out of her way.

"Goodnight, Van Pelt," he whispered as she exited the lot. With a deep breath, he turned and hurried to his own car before he could talk himself out of following her.

Grace had an understated but classy town home in a newer area of town about ten minutes from the office. Her apartment complex was tucked behind an upscale outdoor shopping center with the entrance in the center of a long curving access road. Rigsby parked his car in next to hers, telling himself it was ridiculous to feel this nervous. He hadn't lost it so completely over a woman in many years, probably not since high school. She didn't speak as she unlocked the front door, leaving silence to stretch like a tether between them. Too quickly, she was inside, waiting for him to come in. He stepped in after her, still trying to contain his anxiety. He was, after all, in Grace's apartment, her private space, a place he'd never dared hope to be. He took a moment to look around as she closed and locked the door, shedding purse and jacket onto a table in the foyer.

Moving into the living room, he realized it was exactly what he would have expected to find had he ever thought he would ever make it here. Everything in its place and a place for everything just like the woman who called it home. From what he could see, the furniture was stylish and practical. Organized. He imagined the DVDs were alphabetized or sorted by genre. There were tasteful feminine touches thoughtfully placed throughout the space. It looked like a page in a magazine, arranged to create a cozy and welcoming atmosphere without overly cloying or distracting details. A few personal items dotted the room, making it pleasantly informal. A pair of slippers and a soft throw sat casually by the couch. She'd taken the time to put a personal stamp on this place, making it her own, all the while projecting a careful and controlled image. He could see her in every surface, could imagine Grace moving through the routines of life here.

Now he wanted to see her lose control, lose herself to passion and know he was the cause.

This thought brought him sharply back to the present moment. No matter what, he would follow her lead tonight. He'd come too far now to ruin this fragile beginning by giving in to baser needs. With this in mind, he turned back to where Grace was standing, her back against the door frame between foyer and living room.

"It's nice," he voiced inadequately.

"Thanks," she replied automatically, taking a slow and deliberate breath.

"Hey, what's wrong?" He was suddenly aware she was nervous, _very_ nervous, perhaps even more so than him. Her flirty confidence had evaporated in the familiar lights of home. Rigsby moved towards her, placing his hands on gently on her upper arms, noting the slight tremble under his fingers. Their stance mirrored the moment in the passageway when he'd told her he loved her.

"Grace, what is it?" He felt a flicker of unease. Maybe she'd changed her mind after all.

"It's been a while for me," she blurted after a moment. Immediately, she cringed, her face filling with warm color. "A-And I probably… no, I _definitely_ shouldn't have told you that…" Her eyes closed in dismay. Rigsby shook his head, confused.

"What's been a while?" His brow furrowed in concern. Her eyes blinked open in shock. Her mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, searching for the least humiliating way to explain what she meant. Then, in a rush of understanding, his grip on her arms tightened and he felt embarrassment sweep into his face. Then he snatched his hands away hastily.

"Oh! Ah… I—uh, well… that's um, not what—"he stuttered, "I mean not that I don't want to…um, m—me, um, me too." His confession succeeded in lifting her lips in a timid smile. "Grace," he continued after a deep breath, "I don't have any expectations here. I mean, we could… watch a movie."

"Watch a movie?" she repeated, frowning slightly.

"I mean, I just mean… W-We don't have to ah—"he swallowed, "have… sex if you're not… okay with it." There, he'd said it. They were both adults, for heaven's sake. Best to handle the situation in honest terms.

Except speaking the word aloud was like casting a spell. She relaxed perceptibly, eyes turning warm and soft. Her lips parted as her gaze dropped to his mouth. The space between them shrank magnetically until he could feel her breath on his skin. He raised a hand to brush the curtain of hair away from eyes that were driving him wild. Then, she was moving towards him as she had in the empty interview room, pressing her lips to his on a sigh of desire. His arms circled her instinctively, tightening around her back, holding on for dear life. The texture of her mouth flooded his senses until he could feel nothing but the rhythmic slide of her tongue against his. All sense of time and direction faded away. There was only the tug of supple suction that sent stabs of need straight through him. Kissing her was like the first breath of air after being submerged too long under water.

After a few minutes her mouth became more urgent, insistent and bold. He found that in the privacy of her home, she wasn't as worried about silence. Each soft catch of her breath spurred him on, leading him down the curve of her neck to feather kisses along her collar bone and taste the hollow of her throat. Her hands pulled gently at his hair, electrifying each strand until his scalp tingled. Her lips found his again, sent their tongues swirling together at a new angle. He felt the slide of her hands beneath his jacket at the shoulders, pushing it haltingly down his arms. The sound of the jacket hitting the floor sent a surge of heat through his body. He was sure of her intentions now.

His hands coasted over her shoulders and back, slowly working her blouse free from the waistband of her slacks. When his fingers finally found warm flesh, he rejoiced in the softness of her skin. She, too, was anxious for his touch and pulled back to yank the blouse over her head. The filmy fabric fell away, leaving Grace in a simple cream colored camisole. In that instant, she was pure seduction, her eyes sparkling, long hair floating down around her shoulders. Suddenly, the pressure below his belt increased to the point of discomfort. As he captured her mouth again he moved to loosen it a notch but her fingers got there first, nimbly releasing the buckle and popping the top button of his pants. As she did, she let the back of her fingers barely brush against him. He could barely breathe and yet their mouths stayed fused while she loosened his tie and pulled his shirt free.

Their lips continued exploring as Grace torturously drew out the process of removing the tie and undoing each button on his shirt until he pulled it impatiently down his arms. As soon as the cuffs cleared his wrists, he ripped the undershirt over his head impatiently. Her sharp intake of breath preceded the first caress of her hands on his skin, tracing lines of hard muscle on his chest and back. Rigsby's attention was torn between her questing fingers and the soft press of her breasts, separated from him by only a few offending layers of cloth. Angling his torso, he splayed the fingers of his right hand against her lower rib cage, framing the underside of her breast with the curve of his thumb and forefinger.

"Yes," she whispered into his mouth. Already her body arched forward, yielding to his silent request. With a slight shift, his thumb slid deftly over the silky camisole, drawing slow circles until she let out a soft cry.

"Where's your bedroom, Grace?" he asked her roughly.


	4. Part I: To Those Who Wait

She'd never imagined it could feel like this. All her previous experience with foreplay suddenly seemed cheap and colorless compared to the tangled mess of nerves she'd become in his hands. He left her aching with need and shivering with anticipation. It took a moment for her to force her brain to process his question before she dragged him to the floor.

"Um." She had to think. "Upstairs. On the left." He nodded, leading her by the hand, once again echoing an earlier moment between them with roles reversed. At the base of the stairs, he pulled her back into his arms and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"Hey," he murmured, pulling back to search her eyes though it cost him dearly to stop now. "Are you sure about this? I mean, really?" He held her tightly against him, one hand cradling her face. Making it clear that he wanted her but only if she was certain. The endearing insecurity in his eyes left her weak, heart knocking against her ribs. She couldn't turn back now.

Nodding wordlessly, she toed off her shoes, simultaneously reaching between them to release her own belt and the clasp of her slacks. Then she lifted each foot like she was going to stretch her quads and slowly pulled off each sock, leaning into him as she did so her breasts brushed against the hard wall of his chest. Her eyes never left his face.

"Okay," he whispered, staggered. His hands joined hers to push the waistband over her hips until the fabric pooled at her feet. He let his fingers slowly graze the curve of her ass along the panty line. Then he changed track hurriedly, lifting under her thighs until she was forced to wrap her legs around his waist. She gasped at the sudden weightlessness, conscious that he might not be able to support her. But before she could protest, he was carrying her up the stairs with effortless speed.

Their eyes stayed locked together as he reached behind her to open the bedroom door. She was mesmerized, unable to fathom anything beyond the realization that Rigsby was taking her to bed. He didn't bother to hide his feelings now. Gently, he set her down on the edge of the bed and knelt in front of her, placing a lingering kiss over her heart. For a moment, he didn't move. He just held her, breathing her in with slow, even breaths.

When he finally pulled back, she could see everything in his heart plainly written on his face. A small, frightened part of her shied away from the depth of emotion in his eyes. Somewhere in a buried corner of her heart, a lone alarm bell sounded, warning her not to take this step with him while she was uncertain of her own feelings. He loved her. Not only that, he said he needed her. His feelings were clear. Her own were far, far less defined. Another part of her simply sighed in girlish pleasure, longing to tell him everything he wanted to hear. It was this part, too long devoid of romance, that now urged her to live in the moment. To tell him she loved him too, if only to make him happy.

All of this warred quietly under the surface in the seconds she was trapped by his gaze. Bruised by the unrelenting emotion pouring from the man before her, she forced herself to stop thinking. She couldn't process her own feelings fast enough to react the way she knew he wanted her to. Instead, she leaned forward, brushing her lips against his until his eyes all but crossed with need. She wanted this, wanted him. For more than just one night and for more than just her bed. Later, she would think about what it all meant. Right now she wanted to feel.

She poured as much of herself into the kiss as she dared, as though doing so would make him understand without words. His arms surrounded her, his hands traversing her back, shoulders and breasts. A trail of electricity followed his fingertips to where they tangled in her hair until the heat once again built to fever pitch. "I love your hair," he growled against her lips. "You have no idea what it does to me. It makes me hard just thinking about it."

Instinctively, she pulled back, staring at him. He flushed at her expression, reminding her of a little boy caught swearing. It was so odd to hear him say something so sexual, especially directed at her with his voice rough with need. It sent a wave of delicious heat through her. "Um… sorry," he whispered. "It just slipped out."

"No, don't… don't apologize. It's just a little weird, I guess." The sight of her palms pressed to his bare chest made her smile. "In a good way." All this time, she'd told herself she'd never be able to see him as anything but a co-worker. She'd been sure that if they ever kissed or went on a date she wouldn't be able to stop thinking about the job. But this was Rigsby. Wayne. And all she was thinking about was running her tongue all over his body."Wayne…" His eyes came up from where he'd begun idly coiling her hair around his finger, waiting for her to collect her thoughts.

"Hey, you never called me Wayne before." He thrilled at the sound of his name on her lips even as he cringed at his loose tongue. After months of keeping thoughts and feelings bottled up and tucked away, his internal filter didn't seem to be functioning. Perhaps it was the idea of her bare legs wrapped around his waist just moments ago. Or maybe it was the breathy sounds she made. Maybe there wasn't enough blood left in his head to keep the filter working as it should. Whatever the cause, his inability to think before speaking made him feel inexplicably defenseless and young, like a teenager on prom night.

"That's not true, you know." She bit her lip against a smile as he blinked at her. "I have called you that before. Don't you remember?" A grin spread across her face at his look of confusion. Neither had ever mentioned what happened between them when he was hypnotized. Suddenly, she was dying to know the truth. "Oh, please. You really don't remember?" _The kiss we shared in front of God and country… and Lisbon._

"What?" He shook his head, more bewildered by the moment. She sighed.

"Okay… picture Jane leaning over you. He asks you to close your eyes and picture the thing you most want to be doing at that moment, anything in the whole world. Then, he tells you to open your eyes and go do it. Any of this sounding familiar?…" she trailed off, watching for any sign of recognition. Nothing. "Then you get up. I'm walking away and you… you follow me, and…" She made a forward motion with her hand, beginning to feel a bit mortified. Obviously, the impression left by their first actual kiss had not been strong enough to penetrate his hypnosis hazed mind.

Before her embarrassment could take hold, however, Wayne shot to his feet, pacing the length of her bedroom like a caged animal. Stopping at the far end, he turned back to her with a look of astonishment.

"Oh, my god. Wow."

"What?"

"That _was_ real." A statement rather than a question. She waited for him to continue. "All this time…" Lost in his bemusement, he looked absolutely ridiculous standing in the middle of her bedroom looking totally confused with an erection straining the front of his pants. Then he looked at her with strange intensity. "I kissed you, didn't I? In front of everyone. I really thought… I thought it was a dream… a really good dream." Her eyes narrowed.

"You _do_ remember! I knew it!" she declared, pounding her fist on the bed. If he'd been next to her, she would have smacked his arm.

"Well, sort of." He frowned. The ease with which he's been hypnotized still troubled him. "All of that stuff is pretty fuzzy. I wasn't sure if it was a dream or not for a long time. I mean, when I started remembering, it felt like remembering a dream. And I'd had dreams—" He cut off with a guilty look.

"What?"

"Uh, nope," he said. "You'll laugh."

"Oh, so _now_ you're holding back? Fine." Deliberately, she crossed her arms, causing her cleavage to deepen invitingly. His eyes clouded with desire.

"Okay, okay. You're killin' me, Van Pelt," he murmured, echoing a sentiment he'd expressed early in their working relationship. Exhaling a blustery breath he continued hesitantly. "I had dreams like that before the whole hypnosis thing." She raised her eyebrows, waiting. "I've had dreams… about you since shortly after we met. Dreams where we'd be at work and I'd suddenly give in and… well, you pretty much know the rest. It's almost exactly like what happened, at least as far as I can remember," he finished quickly. But his face went ruddier yet and she knew he wasn't being entirely honest. The dreams probably went a bit farther than kissing.

It was oddly touching, the way his personality was sometimes at odds with his size. A man in his position could easily fall into the womanizing jock cop stereotype. And she imagined, on the rare occasions she allowed herself, that his sex drive was more than a match for that sort of lifestyle. Instead, he was respectful, kind, gentle even. He didn't even swear that often. Yet, here he was, blushing over an erotic dream. At least, she assumed that's why he continued to look so thoroughly abashed.

She leaned back on the bed, letting the movement pull the hem of the camisole higher on her stomach. "Do you remember that case at Bright Arch? The camp?" His eyes dropped to the skin she just exposed and his eyes darkened.

"Uh-huh. What about it?" he said distractedly, stepping back toward the bed.

"Well," she paused, biting her lip. "I have dreams too. It's perfectly natural."

"Very natural," he agreed, looking down at her now. "Tell me."

She paused, unable to verbalize the more explicit parts of the fantasies her unconscious mind supplied. "If memory serves, when I came out to the camp, you were all wet and standing around in your underwear. That made for some… interesting dreams later."

Someday, she would tell him everything. How hot and cranky she'd been after driving out by herself to join everyone else in the field. How much hotter she felt after spying his body through the trees before she realized just who she was ogling. And no matter how many times she repeated in her head that the delectable man who was nearly naked in front of her was a colleague, just a colleague, she'd hardly been able to keep from staring at the smooth expanse of muscle slicked with water. Not to mention a chiseled torso that narrowed perfectly, drawing her eyes to a pair of tight black boxer-briefs that made her mouth water.

She had to force herself to take several deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth, cursing her over active mind. The rest of that day she'd been deliberately curt with him, throwing up her usual shields with more force than necessary. Walking through the woods with him, she remembered wondering how it was possible he could still look sexy wearing a kid-size t-shirt and jeans.

For a solid week, and occasionally thereafter, the scene replayed in her dreams. Except they ended up together in the soft grass where she could explore that delightfully hard physique he normally kept under ties and button up shirts.

"Glad you enjoyed the view," he teased, looking smug. Nodding casually, she levered up onto her knees to face him, trying to keep a straight face.

"I did. It's a lot like the view now. But you need lose these," she said, indicating his pants. Delicately, she reached out and pulled the zipper of his fly down, then leaned forward until her lips were a whisper away from his. "So I won't have to dream anymore." With a growl, he took her mouth again as he quickly rid himself of the pants. She arched her back long enough to pull the camisole over her head, blood pounding as his eyes took in her body. For an instant they paused again, breathless with anticipation. Then, with lips fused, they moved in unison, divesting themselves and each other of the last articles of clothing between them. Heat and longing spiraled together as they became desperate for one another. Her hands raced over his skin as she writhed beneath him, crying out when his lips closed over her breast and lingered there adoringly while clever fingers got busy elsewhere. With every movement, every look, every caress, he seemed to be devouring her slowly, memorizing each inch of her with torturous patience. His fingers moved against her, teasing and testing until she was gasping under his touch.

Perfect. Every inch of her skin, sculpted and soft, molded to his palms like warm clay. He was determined to savor every detail even if it killed him. Too clearly could he recall feeling that all consuming despair when she had tried to gently rebuff him. Though it seemed like days ago, the pain of it lingered in his mind like the memory of an unpleasant aroma. Making love to her was a gift, one he would not waste. All his imaginings of this moment were trampled under the staggering reality. He'd take her higher and farther than she'd ever been, cherishing each and every breath, touch, sensation. He'd drive himself crazy in the loving of her body.

That is, if she would let him.

Obviously, he had neglected to account for Grace's impatience. With each touch, her hands stole away a little more of his purpose. Any hesitance on her part faded away as her slender fingers boldly closed around him with a gentle squeeze. An involuntary cry escaped his lips as she feathered her fingertips up and down, soft and persuasive. He trembled slightly under the first womanly touch he'd known in months. Snatching her hand away, he pinned them over her head and slowed the pace considerably with deep, steamy kisses that gave them time to feel the erotic press of bare skin against bare skin.

When he pulled away, her eyes were dreamy and her hair fanned gloriously on the surrounding pillows. Finally, here was Grace, with all her defenses peeled away. He sighed softly, feeling a familiar pang near his heart. Then she bucked her hips against him, shifting until one leg hitched around his waist. Gasping, his tenuous control slipped a little more. Then she rolled away, giving him a second to catch his breath only to lose it again as he spied the small square package she retrieved from her bedside table. Gladly, he abandoned his earlier plan to move slowly. Thought evaporated entirely as she paused to rip the package open. Together, they rolled on protection with anxious fingers before he pressed her back against the pillows and lost himself to her all over again.


	5. Part II: A Bad Excuse

Her lungs demanded air. She already knew, yet still had a strange desire to ask what the hell happened. Reality was hard to grasp through the hot red haze of pain and fear. The small part of her brain not preoccupied with the haze pointed out the obvious. _She shot you_, it told her in a detached voice. _You're wearing a vest. Calm down and assess the damage. Breathe._

That particular inner dialogue, what she thought of as her cop voice, had served her well in the past. She was tempted to give in to panic, unconsciousness, something that would relieve the unbearable squeezing pressure. The voice wouldn't let her; it was cold, practical and firm. Nonetheless, pain lurked on the edge of the pressure, waiting to pounce, waiting to overwhelm. There was nothing but an awful absence of air still encased as she was by a dreamy bubble of numbness.

Everything seemed to slow around her as though the bubble actually rippled across space and time. She was trapped in a special effect where action happened at normal speed until a strategic instant. Then one extraordinary second stretched out to enhance emotion and drama. With hearing still muffled, she registered Rigsby calling her name, frantic footsteps. Reflexively, she tried to sit up. He said something, yelled for Hicks to go after the shooter. Wayne's face floated above her as he checked her over briefly, his face a mask of barely concealed alarm.

"Okay," he murmured breathlessly. "Just breathe." _No, go after the shooter_, her cop voice ordered him silently. His fingers pressed gently into the surface of the vest. "I can't see any blood." _So go after the bitch! _Groaning as the first vestiges of pain broke through, she made herself take a deep enough breath to speak.

"The vest took it. I'm g—I'm okay. Go, go, go, go—"she managed. As he took off after the shooter, she tried to focus on anything but the bands of pain crisscrossing her ribcage like cracks in a windshield. She took stock. _Am I okay?_ Conscious, alert, breathing albeit painfully. No weakness, light headedness or telltale spread of warm wetness indicating blood loss. Yet. _There may be internal bleeding_, the voice supplied clinically. She winced at the thought and wished viciously that her inner cop would shut up. _No, no, no. Don't think about that now._

Her first instinct was to keep her breathing shallow but her lungs froze spasmodically, protesting the unusually minimal expansion. Too much and her ribs felt like they'd split apart. Tears gathered at the corner of her eyes and trickled slowly to the floor. If she gave in to the waiting flood, her chest would only continue to tighten. Adrenaline surged uselessly in her blood until the sound of her heart thundered in her ears. She could feel herself going into shock as she gulped air, supplying what felt like too little oxygen to her abused system. The combination led to an oppressive sensation of claustrophobia that fueled the fiery panic threatening to engulf her. She focused on convincing her body she was getting enough air.

There was nothing to do but maintain the awful cycle and hope help would arrive quickly.

"Ambulance is on the way," said a reluctant voice. Grace shifted her eyes, distantly surprised to see its owner was the woman who accused them of being fascist just minutes ago. She stood not five feet away as though fearful the condition was catching. As Grace watched, the woman shook her head with a look of distain that said the turn of events had clearly done nothing to improve her opinion of the CBI.

"Thank you," Grace tried to say. The words came out as something between a grunt and whisper.

It was far more painful than she remembered. She'd been shot in the vest before but only in the back. In her days as a beat cop she and several others had rolled up on a residential robbery. The suspects were armed and the ensuing shoot out left her and another officer pulling slugs form their vests, hers coupled with a shallow wound left by a second bullet that grazed her shoulder.

Lucky, they'd called her injury.

That was different. Nothing a few stitches couldn't fix. Sure, it hurt. Burned like she imagined a branding iron would. But it was tangible. The blood was real, bright red turning dark in the night air, a visible token of mortality. A reminder carried by every bullet. Afterward came a natural progression of healing visible to the naked eye that left a thin white scar marking the line of long forgotten stitching.

This time nothing felt real. If she had the wherewithal, she'd have searched for the flattened bullets, assessing their shape with her hands and eyes to ensure the whole event had really happened. As it was, her extremities were little better than dead weight. All sensation diverted to her torso making the very idea of using her hands and arms all but impossible.

Sounds came to her intermittently though she remained conscious. Reality became the fire raging along her ribcage as it gripped her for an interminable length of time. Hours might well have passed as she lay there in the hallway of the ramshackle apartment building that claimed Deezer, head of the Crazy Hill Gang, as one of its residents.

Finally, she heard the approaching clatter of a wheeled cot followed by hurried footsteps. Two paramedics entered her field of vision inciting profound relief she could only express through an increase in the flow of her tears. "Ma'am, can you hear me?" She nodded slightly. "Good. We need to try and get the vest off you. Now, this could be painful so we'll make it quick. I'm going to get the front part over your head. Then we'll decide what to do after we take a look at things, okay?" In her right mind, she wouldn't have appreciated being spoken to like a child. Thankfully she wasn't. She barely kept from crying out with each shift and tug. Through a haze, she heard them tell her they needed to remove her shirt. She shook her head, wincing as a sickening wave of dizziness came over her.

"Don't," she wallowed back the desert in her mouth, "please, don't cut it off." The last thing she wanted was to end up in her bra if it wasn't necessary. She couldn't be sure they heard her pitifully weak voice.

"I don't think I'll have to, but I do need to lift your tank top. My partner is starting an IV and something for the pain." The saline of the IV felt blessedly cool under her heated skin. She felt like a sideshow freak as the neighbors crowded in close despite multiple warnings to stay back. Their callous curiosity made her all the more grateful to the medics for shielding her from view and keeping her covered. The medic evaluating her moved efficiently giving no indications her injuries were worse than expected.

"Okay, this should help you feel better," the second medic said as he finished adding an injection to her IV bag. By this time, local LEOs had cordoned off the area. Most of the gawkers had lost interest and were returning to their respective apartments as though they saw officers get shot every day and this particular offering left much to be desired.

The pain medication soothed her system like a balm. Thought she usually favored holistic pain relievers at that moment she could have sung the praises of modern medicine several times over. In the presence of the drugs, she began feeling much more at ease, almost tranquil. Her heart rate and respiration slowed to a manageable level. The pressure in her chest eased. She asked for a tissue to dry her face as they prepared to take her from the building. She began to feel silly for reacting so strongly, for getting caught up, for almost panicking. Then she felt silly for feeling silly at all. The ability to draw a deep breath still eluded her, yet another reminder that she'd been shot.

And it could have been worse. So much worse.

It could have been him.

The thought skittered across her mind like a pebble on pavement. With it came a brush of the fear she'd so far been successful suppressing. Deliberately, she pushed it out of her mind as quickly as it had entered. She was handling this, would continue handling it for the sake of her sanity. Losing control was not an option. She would bounce back and use the opportunity to prove she could take her lumps in the field and still get the job done.

She felt better just being in the open as the medics took her from the building. The team ran towards her and she prepared for the inevitable. _Downplay it_, she thought. She wasn't surprised by Jane's absence; the man preferred to avoid situations containing the chance of sentimentality.

"How you doing?" Lisbon asked.

"They think the rounds probably… broke a couple ribs," she said haltingly, trying not to wince.

"They're going to check for internal injuries," Rigsby added. She nodded slightly in agreement, keeping her eyes averted. It bothered her that his thoughts so closely echoed her own.

"I'm fine—really," she looked pointedly in his direction, "Just—my legs keep twitching."

"It's just adrenaline. It'll wear off," said Cho.

"Don't ever do this to me again," Lisbon said quietly, only half joking. Grace gave a tiny, wan smile.

"No problem." The paramedics began to wheel her towards the ambulance. From the corner of her eye, she saw Rigsby pause with an odd expression on his face that made her heart bump. She had an overwhelming urge to ask Lisbon if Rigsby could accompany her to the hospital. Instead, she closed her eyes and focused on breathing as slowly and deeply as possible.

"You doing alright?"

"Yes. Trying to relax. Not a fan of being confined," she reassured the younger medic. He nodded.

"Understandable. We get that a lot." She smiled faintly, keeping her eyes closed until she heard the doors close her in. Smothering a quick flare of panic, she imagined herself on a beach, warm with a blanket of sunshine rather than the light blue one covering her legs that smelled of antiseptic.

Theoretically, she knew the possibility of getting shot existed. It was always there, hovering in the background. She imagined it was similar to waiting on the death of a loved one in failing health. It was impossible to fully prepare for such a trauma. And preparing for it was never the same as its arrival. Early on, she'd accepted that choosing to be a cop meant dodging bullets occasionally. Actually getting hit by one was another matter, to be acknowledged but not anticipated. Like all cops, she'd been taught to recognize threatening situations to reduce the chances of ending up in a shootout. The concern wasn't just for officer safety but that of everyone in the immediate area. Every incident involving the firing of a sidearm had to be carefully documented for this reason. Aside from that, new officers also had to learn how to handle the prospect mentally; not every job included such inherent personal danger on a regular basis. Cops who were either too afraid or not afraid enough of getting shot tended to make stupid mistakes.

Grace hated making stupid mistakes.

As a rookie cop, she worked to become comfortable with her weapon until it became an extension of her arm. She was proud of the skill she'd developed just as she respected the life stopping power guns contained. As expected, she was shaken up the first time she was shot at and the first time she had to draw down on someone. It was natural.

At some point, though, even the most careful cop started getting comfortable. In general, more time was spent on less dangerous pursuits; report calls, paperwork, patrolling. The presence of risk ended up on the back burner.

Until it actually happened.

A sound at the rear door alerted her. A shadow passed over the window, making her heart clutch. Silently, she cursed the excess adrenaline making her so jumpy. The door opened, admitting not one of the paramedics, but the very man she'd been emotionally avoiding.

Gingerly, he sat on the bench beside her, enveloping her free hand with his two larger ones. "Hey," he murmured his standard greeting.

"Hey." She spoke around the sudden lump in her throat. A swirl of emotion filled her at his touch. She wanted to laugh and cry simultaneously, to hug and hurt him, to give in to rage, fear, or love. To just feel. Instead, she shut out the confusion and focused elsewhere.

"My leg's still twitching." It was an odd choice of topic that could only be attributed to the mixture of shock and medication, not to mention their shared desire to avoid what they were both thinking.

She could have been killed.

Wayne's eyes followed to where her gaze settled on the end of the cot but he was not to be deterred.

"I love you," he told her simply, beautifully. Instantly, the swirling was replaced by a glow of joy. A smile transformed her face as she bit back a laugh of delight. Despite his early bravado, it was only the second time he'd said those words to her. Her reaction this time was markedly different. But she heard herself reply simply "thanks". The rest would have to wait.

There was another emotion she could no longer ignore, one that grew now in intensity to rival the first. Anger.

Contrary to popular belief, Kevlar vests are intended to withstand the impact of only one bullet. Once the vest's integrity is compromised by one shot, the chances are much greater that the wearer will sustain greater injury with each subsequent hit. Wearing a vest did not guarantee one's safety, especially if the shooter happened to have a caliber of bullet the vest wasn't rated for or aimed for an area the vest didn't cover. She knew this as well as any agent, including Rigsby.

She'd taken three bullets to the vest at close range. Bullets. Plural. Three shots all to the torso. If she was in pain, it was nothing compared to what would have happened had he or Hicks been in her place. Instead of sore and winded, either one of them would have been broken and bleeding to death. Now that the worst was over, she could actually be grateful it had been her. The thought of having to watch Wayne die like that left her choking on fear and rage. Fear of losing him and anger because he'd _chosen_ not to wear a vest to save face. He made a choice that put his life in danger rather than deal with a blow to his precious macho pride. Hicks wasn't wearing one so why should he?

"I have to go," he was saying. "They don't even know I'm here. I'll… I'll call you later."

"Wayne." She swallowed in anticipation of new pain. It needed to be done. She had to show him she was serious. "One thing." He raised his eyebrows in question.

As quickly as she could, she raised her right hand and connected hard with the back of his head. He flinched in surprise, ducking away.

"What was that for?" He was surprised and a little hurt by her unaccustomed violence.

"Next time? Wear your vest," she ordered through gritted teeth. He nodded.

"Okay."

"I mean it," she hissed.

"Yeah. I believe you," he murmured with a mixture of guilt and exasperation. He smiled a little and lifted his hand to her face. If he was there much longer, she would lose it. And she still had to face the ride to the hospital. His presence, the physical reminder of his safety, lodged a ball of tears solidly in her throat.

"Go. Get out of here." She gave his hand a squeeze. Her body felt like one big bruise and her thoughts were a mess. Only one came through clearly.

Though it had caused her actual pain, she thought he was lucky to get away with a mere slap to the back of the head.


End file.
